


Untitled Jack /Chilton prompt

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:49:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a tumblr prompt for "something to do with jack/chilton and a good bottle of scotch?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Jack /Chilton prompt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0fflined](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0fflined/gifts).



Frederick Chilton did not drink like a man who had been recently eviscerated. Jack had opened a bottle of scotch, poured two glasses and before he knew it was reminded of every old school homicide detective he’d ever met. The more Frederick drank the more he talked, expounding on theory and pulling open files to jab at various reports as he struggled toward a point. The man was absolutely wasted, but still functional in a way that had to be reluctantly admired. It took Jack half the bottle to realize that despite his added size, he wasn’t keeping up.

“What were we talking about?” Jack asked, squinting. His head was heavy on his hand.

“Hannibal.” Frederick’s syllables were exact but he threw himself too hard against Jack’s visitor chair. His head lolled on the seatback. 

Jack had known that, anyway. The Minnesota copycat crime scene photographs had spilled all over the table. Frederick had circled something in red on several of them and drawn arrows in exclamation. It wasn’t anything Jack considered worthy of red sharpie. He tried to wipe off the offending mark and smeared red ink on the heel of his palm.

“You know what bothers me the most?” Frederick asked.

“The fact that you and I have almost certainly been fed human remains?”

Frederick blinked. “No,” he said. He did not seem to have heard the statement.

“What bothers you the most?”

Frederick examined the ceiling. Jack examined the underside of Frederick’s jaw, the mechanism of his throat which moved as he breathed and swallowed. Frederick brought his hands up swiftly to indicate the size of his annoyance. He sloshed scotch on his sleeve. 

“It rhymes,” he said finally. 

“It does rhyme,” Jack agreed. He looked around for the bottle. The one at his elbow was empty and they had opened another, a Christmas gift found in a bottom drawer of his desk. Good stuff, rich and spicy. He hadn’t gotten enough of it by his reckoning.

“I mean, I’m not _not_ concerned with the whole eating people thing. I’m just trying to keep it in proportion.”

Part of Jack wanted to tell Chilton to shut up. Other parts were enjoying the slick look of his lips under a coating of liquor. He narrowed his eyes at the thought. Appreciating the aesthetic value of Frederick Chilton? At some point in the last year the man had stopped being simply an annoyance and had become more like a real person. Or at least a mouth worth looking at. “Where’s the scotch?” Jack asked, looking away from him intentionally. 

“Here,” Frederick said. He’d found the bottle on the floor and crept around the desk to give it to Jack. The photographs crinkled under his hip as he leaned against the desktop. Jack thrust out the glass but Frederick ignored it, holding the bottle by the neck and bringing it to Jack’s face. He felt the cold glass of the bottle against this teeth and the warmth of Frederick’s hand millimeters from his lips. 

The liquor stung pleasantly in Jack’s throat. He swallowed, brought a hand up to coax the bottle away, overlapping Frederick’s surprisingly long fingers. Frederick was leaning close to him, hot breath reeking of alcohol. He pushed his other hand against Frederick’s face, smearing red ink on his chin. 

“Jack,” Frederick was saying. “I cannot express how much I appreciate your time and attention.” Jack had him balanced between both hands, face and fingers. His skin was warm, stubble on his chin. Something could happen, Jack decided. The scotch and the shared misery could let something happen and Jack could allow them to work, if he chose to. Here, at work and with this man in this state, it certainly wouldn’t mean anything.

Jack sighed and opened his mouth, formulating some explanation of his own treacherous emotional state. He was interrupted. Chilton coughed, pushed himself off the edge of the desk and threw up in Jack’s trash can. In light of the photographs gleaming on Jack’s desk, it seemed only appropriate.


End file.
